


No Safe Haven

by orphan_account



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Sibling Incest, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-25
Updated: 2011-03-25
Packaged: 2017-10-21 08:00:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/222846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is an AU in which Arthur and Eames are half-brothers. Arthur is raised by his father in the U.S.A., and when his father dies he is shipped off to live with his mother and half-brother in Wolverhampton at the age of 10. In this fic Arthur is 18, Eames is 15. I hope this is clear, but I thought I should probably preface with this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Safe Haven

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: night_reveals , who is a ball of amazingness and took my convoluted storytelling and gently guided me to something that makes a hell of a lot more sense than my first nonsensical draft.

Arthur organizes the dishes at the side of the sink before heading off to bed. He’d rather not have to do it now, but he knows if he doesn’t do this it won’t get done. So he sighs to himself and sets to the task with brisk efficiency. There’s a shocking number of tea mugs, a motley assortment bearing the logos of various footy teams courtesy of the motley assortment of decidedly unsavory boyfriends their mom has had. He tries not to let the familiar swell of irritation rise up in him; she loves Eames and Arthur in her way, but the boys long ago got used to looking after themselves.

This line of thought leads him to worry about his little brother; Eames isn’t violent generally but he’s held his own in a few scraps before. After the run-in Eames’d had earlier in the afternoon with those wanker thugs, he suspects Eames is probably just a little bruised and scratched like Arthur himself. But he is worried that Eames is more bothered than he’s letting on about being picked on because he’s gay -- something he’s never mentioned although Arthur’s always suspected.

So how long Eames has been dealing with this himself he has no idea, but it’s time they talked. It seems a little strange; they’ve always been close and whenever one of them had a problem they always knew the other had their back. But this issue never came up, and maybe it’s a good thing those tossers did what they did, because now Arthur can bring it up.

Their mom has long since gone to bed; she has an early Saturday shift in the morning. Arthur stayed up to watch some TV but Eames had disappeared off to his bedroom shortly after dinner. Arthur had left him to it, but when he climbs the stairs he can see the light on under Eames’s bedroom door and figures now is as good a time as any for that talk. He knocks but doesn’t wait for an answer, just enters.

Eames is sitting on his bed beside the window which is currently wide open, the curtains billowing lightly in the May breeze and a light chill filling the room. His head rests on the wall beside the window frame, he’s hooked up to his MP3 player and he’s smoking with his eyes closed. His lip is split but he appears otherwise intact. The only light comes from his small desk lamp which casts a light down Eames’s side but leaves unleavened shadows in the corners of the room and clinging to the undersides of things.

Arthur approaches and pulls one of the earbuds out. “Mom’s going to throw a shit fit if she finds out you’ve been smoking in here.”

“Yeah, well, she hasn’t come in here in over a year, I don’t see why she’d start now. And anyway I do all the laundry, so it’s not like she’s going to smell it or anything.”

“Well, you shouldn’t be smoking at all,” Arthur says without much conviction. He looks at Eames’s face, his eyes closed again and head pulsing very slightly to whatever’s playing in the other earbud. “Do you have any more?” Arthur asks.

Eames pulls out the second earbud, turns off the iPod and tucks it into the pocket of his hoodie. He pulls a pack out of the other pocket, cigarette hanging from his full lips and pulls out a fresh one to hand to his older brother. He pulls out his lighter and Arthur leans forward while Eames lights it for him, tiny red spot glowing brightly for a moment in the semi-darkness of the room, flame briefly illuminating Eames’s fingers. Once lit, Arthur settles himself on the bed against the wall on the other side of the window.

“How are you? Anything hurt more than it should? You didn’t take a knock to the head, did you?” Arthur asks and kicks himself for not asking sooner.

“No, nothing I haven’t dealt with before. Thanks for stepping in. Much longer and I’d have more than a few bruises. My fists hurt, though,” Eames smiles wryly. “You?”

“Fine. I’m fine,” Arthur brushes Eames’s concern aside as he scratches the back of his neck. “Look, I just wanted you to know... I know.”

Eames looks away quickly, down at his bruised hands. “Know what?”

“About you being gay. I mean, we’ve never talked about it, but I kind of suspected. It’s fine. With me. I mean. I don’t care. Shit, no. That’s not what I mean. I do care, it’s just. It’s okay.” Arthur huffs out a breath through his nose, then takes a steadying breath. “I’m gay, too.” Arthur’s frowning deeply, angry at himself for not handling this half as smoothly as he intended, and also just intent on willing Eames to understand.

Eames doesn’t say anything for a few minutes. But Arthur knows he listened, and waits.

“Yeah, I know,” Eames says as he stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray on the window sill and blows out the last puff of smoke. “It’s not like I didn’t notice that the girls you bring home seemed a little... platonic. You didn’t ever stay out late with any of them and I never once saw you kiss one.” Something of the sudden panic Arthur feels must cross his face because Eames rushes on, “Don’t worry. I mean. Mom doesn’t know I don’t think. It’s not like she pays much attention. I only know because I... I watched.”

Arthur closes his eyes in relief, his brief panic dissipating. He doesn’t want to have any kind of talks with their mom at the best of times, and he certainly doesn’t want to face this one any time soon. She doesn’t have the best track record for being terribly understanding about anything; she’s mostly just caught up in dating a series of extremely unsuitable men and making sure no one forgets how _difficult_ it is to raise two boys by herself. Eames and Arthur had only ever had each other when things really mattered.

It’s a while before he thinks to respond. “You watched?” Arthur’s brain pulls the word out of his tangle of thoughts. Eames probably just meant he _noticed_ , but that isn’t what he said, and it tweaks Arthur’s attention.

“Well. Yeah.” Eames points to Arthur’s cigarette, which is burning down to the stub. Arthur takes another drag and puts it out. He picks up the ashtray, stands up and puts it on the desk, and then returns, closes the window and settles himself back on the bed, this time kitty-corner to Eames, sitting at the head of the bed with his back to the adjacent wall. His foot just barely touches Eames’s, but if Eames notices or cares he doesn’t show it. Arthur rests his forearms on his knees, dangling long fingers in between.

There’s silence for a minute and Arthur isn’t sure what else to say. He isn’t sure he’s going to get much more out of Eames and figures he should get up and head to his own bedroom when Eames starts speaking again.

“The first time you brought a girl home I didn’t like it. I guess I was used to being alone before you got here, and then when you came it was brilliant, yeah? I had a brother and you protected me and we did stuff together. And okay you’re like my half brother or whatever, but it was ace, I always wanted a brother. For years you were like my best friend. And then you brought a girl home and I knew what that meant. Or I thought I did. But then, it didn’t really mean anything. You still spent lots of time with me and you didn’t really go on dates, and you never kissed any of them.” He licks at the split in his lip and looks away to the side, frowning to himself.

Arthur is a little stunned. They did spend a lot of time together, and as lame as it was, Arthur felt like Eames was his best friend. Which is weird, right? What 18 year old boy is best friends with his 15 year old brother?

Arthur had been 10 when his dad died and he come to live with his mom in England, a mom he didn’t even really know. He didn’t know anyone at all and it was scary as fuck. And Eames hung around with him and taught him all the little things Arthur didn’t expect would be so different, like crisps and bacon sarnies and not to say ‘pants’ when you meant ‘trousers’. And bigger stuff, too, but it boiled down to Arthur not fitting in, but he did with Eames. Eames looked up to him like no one ever had. He was devastated and out of his element and Eames was just there, this constant presence who was happy to have him around. No one had ever really been happy to have him around. He supposed he never really thought about what his own presence meant for his little brother.

“What, you were afraid I’d stop hanging around with you, is that it?” he asks, trying to figure out what Eames is driving at, where that tumble of thoughts came from that seem to just be spilling out of Eames like an overflow.

“Dunno. Look, it’s stupid, alright? Let’s just drop it.” Eames rubs his eyes and looks pained. It occurs to Arthur that there’s more here, that something isn’t being said but he’s damned if he knows what it is. All he knows is the only person alive who has ever showed him more than a modicum of affection, the only person who has ever seemed to _need_ him, looks like something pains him, and Arthur can’t leave him like this.

“Eames. Look at me.” Arthur reaches across and wraps his fingers around Eames’s wrist, which is resting in his lap brushing his fingers gingerly across the sore knuckles of his other hand. Eames looks up and chews his lower lip. Arthur sighs. “Look, I’m probably not going to go to sleep for a while. Do you want some beers? I could bring them back in here if you want.” Eames nods and smiles that smile he gets when something’s Sorted.

\--

Arthur comes back with four cans of Red Stripe and places two on the window sill; he hands one to Eames and cracks one for himself. He settles back down, this time right beside Eames, their shoulders touching.

The conversation drifts into less personal territory. Arthur asks if Eames is keeping up in his classes, and Arthur tells him about his A-levels. Arthur is a good student, if a little prone to drinking and smoking too much. He tries to keep the pot smoking and pill popping to a minimum because he needs to keep his grades up high enough to get into a decent uni if he ever wants to make a better life for himself than what they have. Not that it’s terrible: they have a three bedroom place, though it’s small and in a particularly shit area of Wolverhampton. But just under his skin is the itch to move up and away.

They talk about taking off together in the summer to visit some cousins in Bristol who are in university already. They’ve talked a lot over the years of these kinds of trips together, and have managed it once before, a week-long trip to Coventry to visit an aunt. But with Arthur finishing up school and taking a job, he’ll be able to afford to support them for a good two weeks towards the end of summer if he saves up and they don’t have to pay for accommodation. They can take the National Express coach.

By the time they’ve almost finished their second beers it’s going on 1:00 in the morning. Not as late as either of them have stayed up in the past, but late for having only two beers in them. Arthur is once again thinking about getting up and going but when he begins to move Eames touches his arm.

“Arthur. You could stay. I mean. Fuck. Don’t think it’s weird but I kind of don’t want to be alone. Could you? Stay?” Eames is looking at where his hand is touching Arthur’s upper arm.

Arthur is surprised by just how unsurprised he is by the request. He was going to leave but when Eames brings up the possibility, the thought of just... sleeping here. With a warm body next to him. It settles in him nicely. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I can stay.”

He stands up and strips off his clothes, leaving on his boxers. Eames does the same and once he turns out the light they climb under the covers and lay on their backs, uncomfortable for a minute with this unfamiliar arrangement. Arthur turns over towards the wall, pulls the blanket up over his shoulders and says quietly, “Good night.”

“Good night,” Eames replies and Arthur feels the bed shift as Eames turns over as well. It isn’t until Eames speaks again that he realizes Eames didn’t turn to face away, when he hears the voice close to his ear.

“Arthur. _Did_ you ever kiss those girls? I mean. How did you know?”

Arthur thinks about it for a minute before answering. “I tried kissing one once. Gemma, remember her? She was really nice and I liked her and I figured I should. It was okay, but... I guess it just didn’t do it for me. I can’t say that’s how I knew because I pretty much knew anyway. You know, paid more attention to James Bond than the Bond girls.”

“Oh,” Eames says quietly and falls silent for minute. “Have you ever kissed a bloke?”

“Yeah, a few. Done more than that, even. No boyfriends, though. Why, have you?” Arthur is suddenly very curious. At 15, Eames could very well have done any number of things, or none.

“Well, I kissed someone from school. Adam. But he kind of freaked out after and said I couldn’t tell anyone. Didn’t matter because someone saw us, that’s why those guys came after me today. I don’t know what they’re going to do to Adam, he’s not much of a fighter. I hope they leave him alone.”

“Do you like him?” Arthur asks and is confused by the sour feeling deep in his stomach. He shouldn’t begrudge a little fumbling; Eames deserves some human contact, a little action if he can get it. So why does he have this irrational urge to find Adam and punch him in the gob? He turns over and can make out the contours of Eames’s face in the light from the window where they forgot to draw the curtains. Eames seems to be looking somewhere in the vicinity of Arthur’s waist.

“No,” Eames says. “He’s okay, I guess, but I only kissed him because he wanted to. It’s just, he’s kind of a poof and they’re probably going to hit him. I don’t guess there’s much I can do about that, though, is there? If I try to help him it’ll only make things worse.”

“Yeah, probably,” Arthur replies. Then, because he can’t stop himself, “Did you like it? The kissing, I mean.”

“I guess. It was just. Wet.” Another pause. “Is it supposed to be like that?”

“Wet?” Arthur laughs softly. “Yeah, wet’s good. But if that’s all you’re noticing then he probably wasn’t very good at kissing.” He’s startled to feel hesitant fingers on his belly. Eames is brushing his fingertips lightly over the curve of the bottom of his ribs. “Eames,” he says. He doesn’t know if he was going for a warning or what but it comes out as a soft breath that isn’t exactly encouraging but isn’t far off. Eames is so close he can feel his damp breath across his chin and he can faintly smell Red Stripe and cigarettes. Though now that he’s paying attention to smells, he realizes that underneath is a scent that is just Eames; the whole room smells like Eames - his sheets, his pillow, and he’s right here, warm and close in his own bed. Arthur feels like he’s wrapped in Eames - the woodsy musk of his deodorant, something else that’s indefinable but comfortably familiar. He’s appalled at himself when he realizes he’s getting hard inside his boxers, and he prays that Eames doesn’t get close enough to notice.

But _fuck_ Eames _is_ moving closer. He’s closed the distance just that little bit further and he’s grazing his lips across Arthur’s jaw. Not a kiss exactly, just moving his head a few millimeters back and forth.

“Eames,” he says again louder this time, and tries to clear his throat but it comes out as an embarrassing sort of “uh”.

“Please, Arthur. Please, just...”

The sound of Eames’s voice, so naked and vulnerable scatters Arthur’s thoughts, such as they were, and Arthur shifts his head to meet Eames’s mouth with his own. The kiss is chaste, mostly. It’s close-mouthed, anyway, and would be chaste if you discounted the heavy breathing, the pounding of Arthur’s heart and the tent in his boxers. Eames’s lips are soft and full and for a moment they’re both still, just pressing together and breathing through their noses. Then Arthur can feel Eames’s fingers drifting around to his waist and Arthur reaches his own hand out without even meaning to. They start to move a little, pursing slightly and kissing each other’s lips all over. Arthur can taste the lager, the hint of smoke, and mixed in is the sharp metallic tang of blood from Eames’s lip.

 _This is so wrong_ , Arthur thinks. _We shouldn’t be doing this. My brother, he’s my brother_. But his body is paying his mind no attention at all, because he’s gripping Eames’s waist and starting to suck on his lower lip and reach his tongue out to tease Eames’s sinful mouth open. His mind is screaming _stop, you idiot_ but he can’t. He just can’t because it’s delicious and warm and kissing has never been like this before, with someone he cares so much about. So he just carries on kissing with his brows knit together with the intensity of it, the sweet agony of _we can’t_ vs. _I need_ , and when Eames opens to him he licks inside. There’s no dominance here, no play for power, just impossibly soft pulsing caresses of their tongues. And _god_ , Eames just gives into him, everything about his mouth is soft and sensuous.

Eames makes soft needy hums in the back of his throat and his fingers start to claw on Arthur’s skin. The bed creaks under them as one of them moves to get closer - Arthur’s not even sure who or if it’s both of them. His own hand reaches around to Eames’s back, palming all the lean muscle there; Eames isn’t very big now but he’s broader than most boys his age and he’ll fill out soon enough. His fingers trace every contour on their way up to his neck before ruffling into his hair and deepening the kiss.

They’re both breathing heavily and climbing into each other’s mouths, and Arthur can feel Eames’s erection against his hip. Its stiff insistent nudging is too much -- this is too out of control.

He breaks out of the kiss, breathless.

“Eames, we can’t. This is. We _can’t_.” He squeezes his hands up into fists in an effort to quell their twitching need to touch Eames’s skin. But he leaves them where they are, one arm wrapped around Eames and the other tucked between them and he’s afraid to move, tense like a drawn bow.

Eames licks his lips, strokes light fingers along Arthur’s side and he’s looking at Arthur’s face like Arthur’s the greatest thing he’s ever seen.

Eames says, “We can, Arthur. Don’t say we can’t because we can. Doesn’t it feel good to you? Did I... did I do it wrong?” His voice sounds plaintive and scraped raw and it makes Arthur want to give Eames anything because no one else ever does.

“No, Eames, that’s not... you’re doing great. Amazing,” he trails off, lost in the word _amazing_ for a long moment. “It’s just, this is wrong. You have to understand, this is wrong.” And he knows there are words, he knows there are logical reasons not to give into the burning need of flesh and his brain scrambles to find them beyond just the one word repeating over and over in his head. But logic cannot argue against mute skin and before he can stop himself Arthur leans in for another kiss, a tender embrace of the lips that he hopes tells Eames that he’s everything.

Eames licks at Arthur’s lips, feeling their contours, and runs his tongue lightly over the sharp edges of Arthur’s teeth one by one. Arthur should argue, should get up and leave, should do anything other than what he actually _does_ , which is let himself go, an arrow aimed perfectly at the wrong target. He shoves his thoughts aside and narrows his focus to the feel of Eames’s tongue, to the warmth of his body underneath his hands and his own aching need for friction on his cock.

So he pushes his hips against Eames’s, and growls into his mouth. He scrapes his teeth over Eames’s lips, not biting so much as just capturing his lower lip between his teeth. He pushes Eames onto his back and rolls on top of him, increasing the pressure of his hips to create more friction for both of them. He likes the feeling of covering Eames with his body, a shield between him and the world.

Eames moans and it’s far too loud; it reminds Arthur that their mother’s room is just down the hall.

“Shh. Can you be quiet? If I... just. Can you be quiet?” Arthur whispers, almost just a movement of lips right at Eames’s ear. Eames nods quickly and bites his own lip hard enough to leave a dent, chest heaving.

Arthur shifts off slightly, enough to shimmy Eames’s boxers down a little followed by his own. He slots their hips back together. Frowning, Eames’s mouth drops open and he huffs out a breath in apparent disbelief at the intensity of the sensation of their bare cocks pressing together.

Arthur covers Eames’s mouth with his own in a deep, possessing kiss and Eames wraps his arms around his older brother, pulling him down on top of himself. He’s making tiny little helpless murmurs, apparently trying to remain quiet although it’s clear that in other circumstances he would be very vocal. That thought causes an image to flash through Arthur’s head of him folding his brother in half and driving into him, of watching the ecstasy on Eames’s face and hearing his unrestrained moans and shouts of pleasure. The vision makes Arthur’s dick ache for more.

So he reaches down between them and wraps long fingers around both of their cocks together, rubbing them with a firm grip. It’s not ideal, it’s dry so he can only jack a few centimetres back and forth but it’s good. The hardness and heat of Eames’s prick against his own is foreign and intoxicating. He moves his head to kiss down Eames’s jaw, burying his face in Eames’s neck and sucking and licking at the salty skin there. He’s careful not to leave a mark but he wants to. He wants to leave all kinds of signs saying _Arthur was here, hands off_. Because that little fucker Adam didn’t know what he’d been given and it was wasted on him. Something burns in Arthur’s blood, an ancient animal instinct to protect his own.

Eames is murmuring, “Arthur. God, Arthur,” in a strained whisper and he’s pushing his legs apart to make more room and thrusting up into Arthur’s hand. Arthur rubs his thumb over both of their cock heads, mixing their precome and spreading it around as much as he can. Eames’s foreskin is pulling back a bit and when Arthur looks down he can see the shiny purpling head of it next to his own red circumcised cock.

He brushes his thumb back and forth over their slits and that does it. Eames grips his hair, pulling Arthur’s head almost painfully against his shoulder and lifting himself off the bed. Eames’s whole body spasms and he coughs out an incredulous sob as he spills hot spurts of come all over Arthur’s hand and both their bellies. The intensity of his shuddering rocks through Arthur and rips his own orgasm out of him and he erupts, mingling their seed together.

He holds on through the aftershocks, tremors rippling through both of them in waves. They breathe against each other waiting for it all to settle.

Arthur knows that when the dust clears there will be damage. Whatever this was, it can’t be undone. He has no words for what wells up in him. It’s too big, it bleeds into every corner of his being and fills him to overflowing. With nowhere else to go, no safe haven to find solace in, he clings to Eames and buries his face in the warmth and familiarity of his scent and just breathes, willing this nameless feeling to subside.

It doesn’t. But Eames is underneath him and isn’t making a move, so Arthur shifts off and reaches for his t-shirt from the side of the bed. He sits on the edge of the bed and cleans Eames and then himself before pulling his boxers back up while Eames does the same. He doesn’t know if he should head to his room or stay or what.

But Eames has shifted over towards the wall to make room and lifts the covers in invitation. Arthur crawls in and Eames turns over to face the wall. Arthur slots himself in behind, tucks his arm up under the pillow under his head and slides his other arm around Eames to hold him close. He presses his lips to the slope of Eames’s shoulder.

“Good night, Eames,” he whispers, voice seeping into the blank silence of the room, and it isn’t enough but it’ll do for now. Half-bound by blood and raised by half-families, all Arthur knows is that this _right here_ , this joining of flesh and fluid, is the only thing that has ever felt whole, and Arthur will cling to it until he bleeds out.

\---End--


End file.
